Beyond the counter, seated before an old desktop computer, was a stately woman of about seventy-five or eighty years, wearing jeans and a checked blouse, her white hair carelessly combed back. She spoke into a black phone receiver cradled between her neck and shoulder. Slowly, she swiveled on her chair to glance at Hicks, then raised one hand, requesting patience.
Hicks turned to examine the books in the library.
“No, Bonnie, not a word,” the woman said, her warm voice cracking slightly. “Not a word since the letter. I’m just about at my wits’ end, you know. Esther and Mike have quit. No. I’m doing fine, but things are kind of sliding here…”
The library held a fair selection of science books, including one of his own, an early popular work on communications satellites, long since out of date.
“It’s all crazy,” the woman said. “We used to worry about Gas Buggy, and all the radiation from the test site, and now this. They closed down our meat locker. It’s enough to scare the hell out of me. Frank came in with Tillie yesterday and they were so nice. They worried about Stella so much. Well, thank you for calling. I’ve got to start closing up now. Yes. Jack is in the warehouse and he’ll walk me down to the trailer park. Thanks. Goodbye.”
She replaced the phone and turned to Hicks. “Can I help you?”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was wondering about the coffee shop across the street. Is it recommended?”
“I’m not the one to ask,” the woman said, standing.
“I’m sorry,” Hicks said politely. “Why?”
“Because I own the place,” she answered, smiling. She approached the counter and leaned on it. “I’m prejudiced. We serve good solid food there. Emphasis sometimes on the solid. You’re English, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“On your way to Las Vegas?”
“From, actually. Going to Furnace Creek.”
“Might as well turn back. Everything’s sealed up that way. The highway’s closed. They’ll just turn you around.”
“I see. Any idea what’s happening?”
“What’s your name?” the woman asked.
“Hicks. Trevor Hicks.”
“I’m Bernice Morgan. I was just talking about my daughter. She’s being held by the federal government. Nobody can tell me why. She writes to say she’s well, but she can’t say anything about where she is, and I can’t talk to her. Isn’t that crazy?”
“Yes,” Hicks said, his neck hair prickling again.
“I’ve got lawyers all over the state and in Washington trying to find out what’s going on. They might think they’re tangling with some small-town yo-yos, but they’re not. My husband was a county supervisor. My father was a state senator. And here I am, talking your ear off. Trevor Hicks.” She paused, examining him more closely. “Are you the science writer?”
“Yes, actually,” Hicks said, pleased at being recognized twice in as many days.
“What brings you out this way?”
“A hunch.”
“Mind if I ask what sort of hunch?” Clearly, Bernice Morgan, for all her warm voice and hospitable manner, was a tough-minded woman.
“I suppose it could connect with your daughter,” he said, deciding to go for broke. “I’m following a very thin trail of clues to Death Valley. Something important has happened there — important enough to draw your President to Furnace Creek Resort.”
“Maybe Esther isn’t hysterical,” Mrs. Morgan mused.
“I’m sorry?”
“My store clerk. She says some men talked about a MiG crashing in the desert.”
Hicks’s heart fell. Was that all it was, then? Some sort of unusual defection? No connection with the Great Victoria Desert?
“And Mike, he’s a young fellow who worked in our service station, he says some men came to the store in a Land Cruiser and talked to my daughter. They had something covered up in the back. Mike sneaked a look when they took it around the rear and he thought it was something green — dead-looking, he said. Then the government comes in here and sprays this awful stuff all over the inside of my meat locker, closes it off, and says we can’t use it…We lost five hundred dollars in meat. They carted it away, said it was spoiled. Said the locker was contaminated with salmonella.”
Hicks’s intuition made his skin crawl. “Where were you when this happened?”
“In Baker visiting my brother.”
Bernice Morgan gave not the slightest impression of frailty, despite her years. Nor did she appear leathery or “grizzled.” She was the last sort of person Hicks expected to find in a small American desert town. But for her manner of speech, she might have been the elderly wife of an English lord.
“How long has your daughter been missing?”
“A week and a half.”
“And you’re certain she was taken by federal authorities?”
“Air Force types, I’ve been told.”
Hicks frowned. “Have you heard of anything odd in the area — around Furnace Creek Inn, perhaps?”
“Only that it’s closed off temporarily. I called about that, and nobody knows anything. The phone service went out this afternoon.”
“Do you think that’s where your daughter is?”
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it?”
He pursed his lips.
“I don’t think they’re holding her so she can talk to the President about business. Do you?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow.
An old, battered primer-gray Ford truck pulled off the road and into the parking lot with a spray of dust and gravel. Two young men in straw cowboy hats jumped from the back, while a third boy and a heavy-paunched, bearded man with oversized wire-framed MacArthur sunglasses stepped down from the driver’s seat. They all came through the glass door. The bearded man nodded at Hicks, then faced Mrs. Morgan. “We’ve been out and back. Road’s still closed. George is out there, like Richard said, but he doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“George is one of our highway patrol boys,” Mrs. Morgan explained to Hicks.
“Ron, here, thinks his Lisa is still in Furnace Creek,” the bearded man continued. A doe-eyed, thin young man nodded wearily. “We’re going to take the plane and fly over. Find out what the hell’s going on.”
“They’ve probably got the airstrip out there closed,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I’m not sure that’s smart, Mitch.”
“Smart, hell. I never let no government folks push me around before. Kidnapping and shutting down public roads for no good reason — it’s time somebody did something.” Mitch stared pointedly at Trevor Hicks, surveying his suede jacket, slacks, and running shoes. “Mister, we haven’t met.”
Mrs. Morgan did the favor. “Mitch, this is Mr. Trevor Hicks. Mr. Hicks, Mitch Morris. He’s our maintenance man and drives the propane truck.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hicks,” Morris said in a formal tone. “You’re interested in this?”
“He’s a writer,” Bernice said. “Pretty well known, too.”
“I have an idea something is happening near Furnace Creek, something important enough to bring the President here.”
“President like from the White House?”
“The same.”
“He thinks Stella might be at Furnace Creek,” Mrs. Morgan said.
“All the more reason for us to fly over there and find out,” Morris said. “Frank Forrest has his Comanche ready to go. We have room for five. Mr. Hicks, are you interested in coming with us?”
Hicks realized he was becoming much too involved. Mrs. Morgan continued her protest about the risks, but Morris paid her only polite attention. His mind was made up.
There was no other way to see what was happening in Furnace Creek. He would be stopped on the highway as everybody else had been.
“There’s too many of us here, with a pilot, already,” Hicks said.
“Benny doesn’t fly,” Morris said. “He gets terrible airsick.”
Hicks took a shallow, spasmodic breath. “All right,” he said.